“I’ll see what I can do. It may not be the way you would do it.”
The last time Stark had said that, Quebec terrorists had died and he had been court-martialed, though C. J. and the others involved had been saved from the consequences.
“Why have you always been such a rebel?” she sighed.
“I never was until I met you.”
Chet Baker played a trumpet solo.
“Is that my problem with men?”
“Why is that a problem?”
C. J.’s Blackberry buzzed on the kitchen counter. She ignored it. “Because it’s not right to be a rebel. That’s why there are rules.”
“Caroline Jaha, sometimes you have to be a rebel to do what’s right. Sometimes you have to make things happen. Sometimes you have to be Fate instead of letting Fate control you.” That sentiment had resulted in his court-martial, he realized. Had he just doomed her to something similar?
She sighed in resignation. This had to be done. It was why she was here. She hoped that Stark could pull it off this time. She had already expended her one silver bullet for him. Even now, with her rank in the State Department, she might not have the power to save him from the consequences again.
“Just get them to help. I trust you. I’m tired of this uphill battle against them and Washington and the terrorists and pirates. I’m tired of doing this alone.”
“You’re not alone anymore. But you’re the boss, C. J. You have the authority, and you have the assets here to do it—not as many as you’d like, but we have to conduct operations with the assets we have at our disposal, not the ones we’d like to have. You know how to take command. You have the ideas and know what needs to be done. You took charge in the office with me and Golzari.”
She moved to nestle her head against his thick shoulder. “Only after you punched him . . .”
“Why did you let things escalate to that point?”
“You needed to get it out of your system, and he crossed the line with you. Plus, he needed to realize that you’re his equal. He’s arrogant, and he’s pretty full of himself after stopping that attack. Once you calmed down and he shut up, the situation improved.”
She was right, he thought. “I’ll help you.”
“No rebelling?”
He chuckled. “No rebelling. I’ll do whatever you want.” Connor put his empty glass down on a side table and cupped her cheek as his thumb caressed it. She moved closer to him.
“We’ll succeed?” she asked.
“We’ll do what has to be done,” he said quietly.
“Regardless of the cost or the consequences?”
Chet Baker finished his last song and the room went quiet. The only sound C. J. heard and felt was the adagio tempo of his heartbeat. She tapped her forefinger on his bicep to its constant rhythm—the human metronome she needed to pace herself on this path. She tilted her head up toward his and closed her eyes.
Connor lifted his chin at the last moment and lightly kissed her forehead. “So how are the Washington Nationals doing this year?” he whispered.
She dropped her head back against the sofa and laughed.
DAY 10
U.S. Embassy, Sana’a, 0600 (GMT)
“Gentlemen,” Sumner said to the two men who stood in front of her desk. “Commander Stark has requested permission to leave the embassy compound for two days. I’ve granted it. Agent Golzari, you will accompany him as his protective detail.”
Stark bit off his objection before it passed his lips; he had agreed to do things her way.
“Madam Ambassador, may I remind you that I am still conducting an investigation and that you ordered me yesterday to find Asha,” said Golzari.
“I don’t need a reminder,” she responded curtly. “I am not rescinding those instructions, Mr. Golzari, but right now this has a higher priority.”
“Madam Ambassador, I’d like to remind you that this is a critical-threat post and that—”
“Actually, Agent Golzari, I don’t need you to remind me of that either. I’m very much aware that this is a critical-threat post.”
“Madam Ambassador, I really must protest . . .”
C. J. held up a piece of paper and said, “This fax arrived overnight from the director of Diplomatic Security approving my request to temporarily assign you here as our RSO. You may protest to a limited extent, but keep in mind that I now own you.”
“Welcome to the club,” Stark whispered to Golzari.
Golzari looked at Stark without changing his expression, then turned back to the ambassador. “May I ask where Commander Stark is going? The last time he went somewhere things went very wrong. I would like time to prepare for any contingency.”
Stark answered him. “We’re going to Mar’ib. It’s east of Sana’a, about a ninety-minute drive from here.”
“Good luck, gentlemen,” C. J. said briskly. She flicked on the intercom. “Mindy, I need to meet with the gunnery sergeant.” She looked up. “Gentlemen, you’re dismissed.”
Golzari tossed his overnight bag in the back seat of the SUV next to his larger go-bag. Stark arrived a few minutes later wearing a white cotton shirt and khaki pants similar to those Golzari—and most foreigners in Yemen—wore. Stark carried two bags as well, including one that appeared to be a go-bag. He donned a pair of Oakleys to shade his eyes from the bright midmorning sun.
“What’s in that?”
“Probably the same thing as in yours.”
“I doubt that. What the hell’s in the bag?”
“Emergency kit, a 9-mm, and a few clips.”
Golzari snorted. “That popgun will do you a lot of good. Here. I picked up an extra rifle,” he said, handing one to Stark. “Ever handle one of these before on a ship?”
“This? On a ship? No.”
“Well try to figure it out, Stark, and don’t point it toward me. If the shit goes down, I won’t be able to help you.”
“Golly gee. And I thought you were assigned to protect me. Let’s see,” Stark said as he held up the weapon. “Hmm, M4A1 carbine. I’m glad you didn’t bring the semiautomatic-only option like the M4. Full-auto option is a waste of good ammunition, but it’s good to have just in case. Six pounds empty. Shorter stock than the M16 variant. I’d prefer the M16 since the M4 is shit beyond three hundred yards, but I don’t expect we’ll have to worry about that kind of distance if we’re in a firefight, now will we, you presumptuous prick?”
Stark punctuated the last word by chambering a round.
Gritting his teeth, Golzari merely uttered, “Get in. I’m driving.”
Neither occupant said anything until they saw the signs that told them they were approaching Mar’ib.
“You ever been here before?” Stark asked.
“Mar’ib? No. It’s always been on my list of places to visit. Mar’ib is one of the region’s oldest cities. It was the capital of the Sabaean Kingdom. Legend says it was founded by one of Noah’s sons. Some of the ruins go back three thousand years. There’s a temple here. What the hell was name of it? Oh, yeah, Bar’an.” Golzari was speaking more to himself than to Stark.
“This is where the Queen of Sheba ruled,” Stark commented while gazing out the side window.
“A Greek historian wrote about the Roman prefect in Egypt who was lured here to his death,” Golzari added, refusing to be topped.
“Strabo.”
“What?”
“Strabo. That was the Greek historian who wrote about that campaign. It was led by Aelius Gallus. He was betrayed by a local guide. The Romans had their asses handed to them. You never know who you can trust,” Stark explained.
If Golzari was surprised by Stark’s familiarity with a weapon no naval officer should know—except a SEAL—he was downright shocked that the man he had dismissed as a barbarian knew about a relatively obscure historian, much less the name of an even more obscure Roman leader. This made two unexpected revelations in less than an hour.
“How the hell do you know that?” Golzari asked.
“Where exactly are we going?” Golzari asked in mounting frustration.
“A friend’s.”
“Does this friend have a name?”
“Mutahar.”
“And what does this friend do for a living?”
“He’s a businessman.”
“Why are you going to meet with him?”
“He invited me.”
“What kind of businessman?” asked Golzari.
“How about we stop playing twenty questions?” Stark shot back.
“I’m supposed to protect you. I need information to do that properly.”
“I didn’t ask for your protection, Golzari. That was an order from higher up. But if you have to know, Mutahar owns a shipping company and he’s involved in some other businesses. Some I know about, some I don’t.” Stark wiped sweat from his forehead. A year in Scotland had made him more susceptible to the Yemeni heat.
“How long have you known him?”
“A few years. Look, Golzari, he’s a friend. He’s not a terrorist. I’ll be safe at his place.”
“There are no safe places in Yemen, Stark.”
They were silent again until Stark pointed out the final turn. “His estate is just up the road.”
“His estate?” Golzari said sardonically. “How awfully grand. How rich is this Mutahar?”
After a slight bend in the road Mutahar’s home came into view atop a hill in the distance. Golzari had to admit that Stark had been correct. This was no simple house. It was a palace with gleaming walls of adobe and coral, and a well-guarded one, at that. A series of one-story arches accentuated the front of the main three-story building, with a three-story arch in the middle. As the embassy SUV came closer, Golzari could see that these weren’t simple arches, they were iwans—soaring vaulted doorways that opened into a central atrium. Above the middle arch rose a tower two stories taller than the rest of the house. At each corner of the tower was a minaret-like structure that stretched another sixty feet or so into the desert sky. Intricate latticework adorned the edges of every wall and window opening. A large rose-patterned medallion of stained glass glowed above the central arch. The sections on either side of the tower extended backward in graceful curves.
A thick two-story wall with inset guard posts protected the entire complex fifty yards out from the palace, enclosing some smaller single-story buildings within its confines as well. Armed guards patrolled a barbed-wire fence two hundred yards farther out.
Golzari couldn’t distinguish the plants at this distance, but the grounds inside the inner wall were green with lush gardens and extensive grasslands. He stopped the car.
“What are you doing?” Stark said.
“I’m waiting for information. No bullshit, Stark. Who the hell is this guy?”
“I told you, a friend. I had dinner with him the day you followed me. He’s a member of the ruling family.”
Gunnery Sergeant Willis’ story about Stark saving the life of a member of the ruling family popped into Golzari’s mind. He also knew, based on the report Posh Robert had let him see in London, that Abdi Mohammed Asha’s khat had arrived in Boston on a ship owned by a member of the ruling family. Stark had friends in high places, all right. And maybe, just maybe, this Visigoth had stumbled onto or was part of something important.
Golzari had to agree that Stark was safe inside the estate. He was a guest in a well-protected enclosure, and Arab hospitality was legendary in this region of the world.
“Let’s go, Golzari. And remember, I can still defend myself. Three Somalis in Scotland could attest to that if they were still alive,” Stark snapped. “With your mighty protection added in,” he added sarcastically, “I’m invincible.”
Something else clicked in Golzari’s mind. “Wait. Three Somalis from Birmingham?”
“Yeah, at least one was. How did you know that?”
“From a source who was apparently referring to you. I just now made the connection. Do you know anything about them or why they attacked you?”
“Not specifically. But I’ve been in this region before. It might have been a hit.”
“Ordered by the pirates? Why you?”
“There’s a top Ali Baba. Some people refer to him as a pirate king, but that’s probably not an accurate interpretation. I thought a lot about it on the helicopter ride back to Sana’a. The attack the other night wasn’t on the supply ships—it went directly after the Kirkwall. Why mess with an armed ship when there are other unprotected boats out there ripe for the taking? The pirates haven’t bothered any of Maddox’s boats since he started using armed guard ships.”
“What was different?”
“Nothing, except that I was on it. I figure they were after me, just like in Scotland. Which means someone knew I was going to be on that ship at that time and got word to the pirates.”
“We’ve got a leak, then. It could be someone in the embassy, in Maddox’s company, or the Yemenis.”
“You’re right. It’s going to take some time to pin down, though.”
Golzari had an idea. “You don’t want me to protect you, and I don’t want to protect you, right?” he said.
“Brilliant observation.”
“And you’re safe with your friend Mutahar?”
“Of course.”
“All right. I’m dropping you off and coming back tomorrow.”
“Where are you going?” Stark asked.
“Sightseeing,” said Golzari.
“The ambassador won’t like it if she finds out we split up.”
“Does she have to find out?”
“Not unless something happens to one of us,” noted Stark.
“Then let’s make certain nothing does, shall we?”
“It’s a deal.”
Mukalla, 0644 (GMT)
Faisal al-Yemeni was the first person off the Suleiman after it tied up at the pier. Still smelling of sweat and diesel fumes, he wore the long white cotton shirt and baggy brown pants torn at the knees that he had worn for the entire voyage. The money he had made from piracy—not to mention his family’s wealth—would have purchased fine clothes, but Faisal eschewed such luxuries. Money spent on frivolous clothing or fancy cars was money he could not use for more important things.
“Welcome back!” Ahmed al-Ghaydah said, dropping his arms as soon as he realized his embrace was not being returned. “Asha al-Antoci is here at the hotel, Faisal.”
“Take me there.”
The hotel was only a short drive from the pier. Asha wasn’t there when Faisal entered the eighth-floor room, so he showered and put on one of the spare sets of clothing he kept at the hotel. The arrangement worked well. He and those who worked for him always paid the hotel in cash so there was no way to trace them. Every member of the concierge staff was paid well to notify them if any questions were asked about them.
When Asha returned from an Internet café half an hour later, he found Faisal on the balcony, staring at the ocean.
Faisal embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks. “It has been too long, Abdi Mohammed.”
“It is good to be here. Hu put me in a cesspool of a city that was as cold as the Americans’ hearts.”
“Does your return mean that Hu is ready for you?”
“You don’t know? Ahmed al-Ghaydah didn’t tell you?” Both men looked at al-Ghaydah, who sat on one of the room’s double beds chewing khat like a sheep. He raised his shoulders and shrugged.
Asha and Faisal exchanged looks of disgust. Faisal closed the door to the balcony so that al-Ghaydah couldn’t hear them, and the men caught up on events that had transpired since Asha had been spirited away to the United States.
“So neither of our attacks worked,” Asha said when he had finished telling Faisal of the foiled attack in Sana’a.
“Not completely,” Faisal said, “but we had some success. We sank one of their well-armed mercenary ships and killed the Americans’ military adviser. They fear u
s now even more than before, and they know that their navy cannot protect them. They will not stay here much longer. And then we will have won.”
“Inshallah, Faisal, inshallah,” Asha said. “But al-Amriki told Hu that the military adviser and others survived.”
“Al-Amriki! American pig! Why trust a man whose face I’ve never seen? It’s foolish to think an American would help us, Asha. If it were not for Hu I would have nothing to do with him.”
“I know what he looks like,” Asha said.
“How do you know? Have you seen him, then?”
“Hu told me. When we were on his plane after leaving America. He wouldn’t give al-Amriki’s name, but he said that it disgusted him to have to work with a fat American barbarian with hideous red hair and a name like a color. He said the man holds a very powerful position and will help us reach our goal.”
“I’m surprised Hu said even that much. Perhaps he was misleading you,” Faisal offered.
Asha shrugged. Hu was a mystery to him. All Chinese were. Soon, inshallah, he would be back in Somalia among people he knew and understood. “Perhaps. But tell me more about how you sank the Americans’ ship.”
“I used the new remote-controlled skiffs loaded with explosives. I tell you, Abdi, they are going to change the face of the Gulf. Everyone will fear us.”
“But you said your ship stayed a long distance away. Don’t you have to be close to operate the boats?”
Faisal grinned. “Yes, but that is our secret weapon. We have a small helicopter that we keep in the Chinese compound on Socotra. The controller is in the helicopter. This was the first time we used it.”
“When did you develop this system?”
“Recently. The Chinese helped us. One of them told me that they like to test their products in various parts of the world. We are happy to help them do that. But what of the American agent you spoke of, Abdi, who followed you from America to London to Yemen? He stopped an attack that should have been successful. He is a threat to us all.”
The Aden Effect Page 18